LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

/»« H03 7 

<§{ptp ©nptjrtg^i !fo, 

Shelf... »X.^ „ 
J 8-? 6 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



3Saota; fcp f&\m Cljamag. 



THE ROUND YEAR. Prose Papers. i6mo, gilt 

top, $1.25. 
LYRICS AND SONNETS. i6mo, gilt top, $1.25. 
THE INVERTED TORCH. Poems. i6mo,$i.oo. 
FAIR SHADOW LAND. i6mo, gilt top, $1.25. 
IN SUNSHINE LAND. Poems for Children.. 

Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $1.50. 
IN THE YOUNG WORLD. Crown 8vo. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Boston and New York. 



IN THE YOUNG WORLD 



BY 



EDITH M. THOMAS 



>mmMm 




msft&i&iim 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

(ffbt mitoxpibz \Bvt$3, €ambxibQt 



? 

f 









.1* 



Copyright, 1895, 
By EDITH M. THOMAS. 

/4/Z rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U. S.A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



TO EDITH FRANCES MED AIRY 



In little Edith's name 
I bid this book of verses go ; 
Yet she cannot spell nor read, 
Nor a single letter show I 
Do not think it strange, indeed ; 
'Tis such a little time ago 

Since Little Edith came. 

No excuse I '11 make : 
Brightest eyes and busiest hands - 
She grows wiser every day ! 
Other children, throicgh the land, 
Older children, meantime, may 
Read ?ny book and understand, 

For Little Edith's sake. 




I. SYLVIA AND THE FLOWERS 
II. UNDER GREEN BOUGHS 

PAGE 

April ... 27 

Morning in Birdland .-.-.. 28 

Good Morrow ! 29 

" Welcome, Robin, or Thrush ! " . . 31 

The Message of the Birds 32 

May-Dew . 22 

A Wild Bouquet .34 

The Fleur-de-lis 35 

The Day's Eye 36 

The Wintergreen 37 

A Summer Shower 38 

Nicor 39 

A Humble Balloonist 41 

" Blossom, Blossom on the Green Bough ! " 42 

Echo 44 

Chased by the Moon ...... 47 

The Squirrel 48 

Gossips of the Night ...... 49 



VI 



Contents 



Midges 50 

In a Hammock 51 

Baby's Tears 52 

Baby's Evening-Song 52 

Baby's Dreams 54 

" Are your Grapes Ripe ? " .... 55 

III. WHEN WINTER COMES 



What the Swallows said 

Overheard in Autumn Woods 

"What Cheer?" . 

Two Owls . 

The Owl's Soliloquy 

Raleigh Bells 

Shoe or Stocking? 

Mrs. Kriss Kringle . 

Christmas Boughs . 

The Shivering Tree . { 

A Storm at Sea 

Clouds of Evening 

The Village by the Lake 

The Winter Street . 

The Fir-Tree . 

The Small Hours 

The Little Watcher . . . 

"The Cricket kept the House 



59 
62 

64 
65 
66 

67 
69 
70 

72 

74 
75 
76 
76 
77 
79 
80 
82 
83 



IV. WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE 



What's my Thought Like? 
Advice 



87 



Contents 



VI] 



The Reward 


. 88 


Friend-Ship 


88 


Instinct 


. 89 


The Feud of Land and Sea 


90 


A Sermon on the Leaf .... 


• 9i 


Little Friends in Fairyland ' 


92 


How the Field-Mice helped the King 


• 94 


King David's Coin . . . . " . 


97 


Cruelty 


. 98 


Dick Whittington leaves London 


• ' 99 


An Eagle's Quill 


. 100 


The Rainbow in her Tears 


101 


Madeline's Happy Thought 


. 102 


Daisy with one Dimple .... 


102 


The Wrong Word ...... 


• 103 


A Little Quaker 


104 


Temper 


. 106 


The Mother who died too 


107 


The Little Self 


. 108 



US CHILDREN" 



" Us children" so we used to say, 

When we planned what we would play ; 

" Us children " would do so a?id so, 
Wonder-ways we meant to go, 
If the weather should be fair. 

" Us children," always, everywhere ; 
Flowering in the woods in Spring, 
Where we made the echoes ring, 
Nutting in October days, 
When the woods seemed all ablaze. 

" Us children," so we always said — 

" Us children," loath to go to bed, 
Telling stories round the fire 1 

" Us children ? " Some one would inquire, 

" That, you know, is not the way, 

1 We children^ you should learn to say." 
Try as hard as try we might, 

" We children " never would seem right ! 
Some of us forget, and say 

" Us children," to this very day ! 
US CHILDREN in this book may see 
Themselves, and so, will pardon me. 



SYLVIA AND THE FLOWERS 




IN THE YOUNG WORLD 



SYLVIA AND THE FLOWERS 



PART FIRST 
A CONVERSATION ABOUT FLOWERS 

Sylvia and her mother. Sylvia, who has sprained 
her ankle, lies oji a sofa drawn tip before an open 
window. Beyond are a broad piazza, shade trees, 
and a green lawn. 

SYLVIA. 

OW long the days are, mother, 
— Oh, so long! 
And they were short when I was 

well and strong. 
The time will never come, it 
seems to me, 
When, before breakfast, I shall go and see 
What flowers have blossomed out since yes- 
terday. 
So many flowers have come and gone away, 
That I have never seen, — the lovely flowers ! 
3 




Sylvia and the Flowers 



MOTHER. 

They count their lifetime not by years but 

hours ; 
A day for them, — one day of sun and dew, 
My Sylvia, is like ten years for you. 

SYLVIA. 

The flowers came visiting me one day — I 

mean 
I made believe they did. First came the 

Queen, 
The great red Rose, the very first to bloom, 
Upon the fan-shaped trellis. All made room 
For her, and many smiles and nods she gave. 
I said, " Your Majesty, one leaf I crave, 
Just one red leaf for" — (Oh, how queer 
I cannot say that word !) — 

MOTHER. 

" For souvenir? " 

SYLVIA. 

Yes, that 's the word I meant — for souvenir ! 
She said, — at least, I played she said, " My 

dear, 
Your wish shall be fulfilled, if you will be 
One of my people, always true to me." 
"I will, Your Majesty." (I spoke out loud.) 
And then, just like a raindrop from a cloud, 



A Conversation 



Came twinkling down a fine red velvet leaf. 
A strange thing happened, next : there came 

a thief 
That stole the rose-leaf, right before my eyes ! 
Guess who it was. 

MOTHER. 

Perhaps Puck in disguise. 
Strange pranks sometimes the Little People 

play, 
(So say the fairy-tales) about Midsummer 

day. 

SYLVIA. 

'T was only a bee, — a little buzzing bee, 
With yellow stripes, that stole the leaf from 

me. 
She picked it up, and held it folded tight 
In both her arms — and flew away so light ! 

MOTHER. 

And said perhaps (we '11 make believe she 

said), 
" I need that velvet leaf, so smooth and 

red, 
Much more than you ; so, little girl, I '11 take 
And cut it nicely out, and with it make 
My baby's cradle soft, and warm, and rich." 



Sylvia and the Flowers 



SYLVIA. 

Mother ! no bee ever took a stitch ! 
Besides, bees live in hives — I 'm sure they 

do, 
And are so busy making honey, too I 

MOTHER. 

Not all. This was the Solitary Bee, 

And you would greatly wonder, could you 

see, 
Within some hollow stem, her curious cell 
All lined with leaves, cut out and fitted well. 

SYLVIA. 

Mamma ! Next time the flowers come visit- 
ing me, 

1 shall invite the Solitary Bee ! 

I wonder what the flowers think of the bees, 
Who never even say so much as "please," 
When they go diving in a blossom's cup, 
Or bell, to bring the sweet, sweet honey 
up ! 

MOTHER. 

A little verse long, long ago I knew — 

SYLVIA. 

Try to remember it — Oh, mother, do ! 



A Conversation 



MOTHER. 

{After a pause remembers^ and repeats the verse.*) 
The rosemary blossoms, so sweet, 

Nina Isabel, 
Are simple blue flowers, to-day ; 

To-morrow, they 're honey — ah, well ! 

How the flowers to honey are changed, 

Nina Isabel, 
Only the honey-bee knows, 

And the honey-bee will not tell ! 1 

A playmate once, a little Spanish girl, 
With every tooth as white as glistening pearl, 
And hair as blue-black as the blackbird's 

wing, 
Would often say this verse, and oftener sing. 

SYLVIA. 

Who's "Nina Isabel"? 

MOTHER. 

I do not know, — 
Some little Isabel of long ago. 

SYLVIA. 

I '11 learn the pretty verse by heart, to say 
When I am tired of thinking all the day. 

1 In part translated from the Spanish. 



Sylvia and the Flowers 



Since I 've been sick, I 've shut my eyes up 

fast, 
And made believe I saw the flowers go past, 
Just as we children form into a line 
And " Forward, march ! " when teacher gives 

the sign. 
Outdoors, I always knew what all the flowers 
Would say, and talked with them for hours 

and hours. 
But oh ! it is so hard to make believe 
When you 're shut up at home ! 

[Sylvia draws a deep sigh. 

MOTHER. 

Dear child, don't grieve ; 
I have a pleasure planned in mind, for you, 
And Mabel, Florence, Madge, and little 

Hugh, 
And all the rest shall take a part with me. 
When you 're a little stronger, you shall see. 
But now lie still, and fall asleep, perhaps ; 
It is a lazy day, and little naps 
Are in the air ; and one may chance your 

way. 
Here, close beside you, with my work, I '11 

stay. 

Sylvia sleeps. The birds in the trees call drowsily. 
The scent of honeysuckle and the hum of bees come 



A Conversation 



in through the open window. Sylvia s jnother sits 
beside her, sewing. An interval. Sylvia, waking, 
utters some indistinct word. 

MOTHER. 

What, dear ? You 're talking in your sleep ! 

Ah, yes, 
I see you have been dreaming. I can guess 
It was a pleasant dream. Those happy eyes 
In dreamland meet with many a glad surprise. 

SYLVIA. 

mother, now I have a lovely plan, 

And mother, please to help me all you can ! 
If you will write it, word for word, I '11 tell 
My dream, while I remember it so well. 
It 's what the garden fairies say and do. 
And Mabel, Florence, Madge, and little 

Hugh, 
And all the others — we will act it out, 
When I am up again, and go about. 

1 'm sure you '11 think 't will make a lovely 

play. 

MOTHER. 

Yes, dear. But dreams do sometimes slip 

away, 
So tell me all about it, while you may. 

Sylvia proceeds as if to tell her d?-eam, which her 
mother writes down. Afterwa?'ds it is arranged 
as a Play. 



IO Sylvia and the Flowers 

PART SECOND 
A FLOWER PLAY 

In which a number of children, Sylvia's friends, 
take part j also, Sylvia, who has recovered. 

Characters: Sylvia j The Flower-Elves j Daffo- 
dil, their leader j The Garden-Gossips : Hist, High- 
Spy, Pitpat, True, Trim, Wavery, Glimmery, Bub- 
ble, Nip, and Nim. 

The children representing the Flower-Elves and 
Garden Gossips sho2ild be dressed in character. 

DAFFODIL. 

(At the head of the Flower Elves, the Garden Gossips 
following, all turning towards Sylvia.) 

It is so many and so many a day 
(Not later than the very last of May) 
Since you 've been seen upon the garden- 
walk, 
We thought we 'd come and have a cosy talk, 
And tell you what your friends have been 

about. 
You have forgotten some of them, no doubt ? 
[ The Flower-Elves all bow here. 

SYLVIA. 

Indeed, I have n't ! — You are Daffodil ; 
You know I never could forget you. Still, 
It does seem very strange to have you here 



A Conversation 



Right in the summer season of the year : 
You come so early, in the wind and rain, 
Not later than the May. 

DAFFODIL. 

I should explain 
That we are not the darling flowers them- 
selves, 
Although we seem so : we are but the elves 
That take good care of every flower that 

blows. 
Each flower-elf every other flower-elf knows, 
Whether of earliest Spring or Summer's 

close, 
From bashful snowdrop to the proud red 

rose. 
Ah, well, I see you do not understand — 
I can but say, 't is so in Faeryland. 

SYLVIA. 

Tell me of Faeryland, dear Daffodil. 

DAFFODIL. 

Not I. But there are Gossips here, who will. 
Here 's Hist, and High-Spy, Pitpat, True and 

Trim, 
And YVavery, Glimmery, Bubble, Nip, and 

Nim. 

[Here all bow ve?y low to Sylvia. 



Sylvia and the Flowers 



They know the news ; they gad about and 

hear 
What 's done in Faeryland the whole round 

year. 

sylvia {to herself). 
How droll ! Some seem all eye, and some all 

ear — 
But that 's the way, I s'pose, to see and hear. 

{To the Garden Gossips) 
Now tell me what is done in Faeryland. 
Talk flower or bird talk, please ; I '11 under- 
stand. 
What have you seen in Faeryland, or heard ? 

wavery and glimmery {speaking together). 

We 've seen them making wings of maple 

keys, 
With which they float about upon the breeze. 

SYLVIA. 

Of course : the seeds that from the maples fall 
In Spring, are just like wings ! And is that 
all? 

HIGH-SPY. 

I 've seen them on the spokes of thistle-down 
Ride here and there above the fields all 
brown ! 



A Conversation J 3 



nip and NIM (together). 
We 've seen them harness two great moths, 

with eyes 
Like rubies, or like fire — 

PITPAT. 

Yes, dragon-flies 
I 've seen them drive with lines of gossa- 
mer — 
Cicadas, too, that all day long sing ch-r-r ! 

SYLVIA. 

I did n't dream that they were any good 
For horses — yet they might be, if they 
would ! 

BUBBLE. 

I 've seen the elf-folk bringing down the dew ! 

HIST. 

And I have heard the blossoms drinking, too ! 

SYLVIA. 

How do they bring the dew down to the 
flowers ? 

BUBBLE. 

From the sky-fountain, in the twilight hours ; 
In least small pitchers, holding half a drop, 



*4 Sylvia and the Flowers 

They bring it down, and pass it round, and 

stop 
At every flower, however plain or small. 

SYLVIA. 

Of course, the lilies drink the most of all ? 

BUBBLE. 

Oh, yes ; yet little Speedwell, scarcely seen 
(She is so small) in pastures wide and green, 
Each night one pitcherful of dew obtains, 
So all are satisfied, and none complains. 

SYLVIA. 

And yet, some flowers I 've seen look sadly 

down, 
Some seem to smile, and others wear a frown. 

TRUE. 

I see you never heard the song they sing 

In Faeryland, about that very thing. 

They sing, and while they sing they act each 

part; 
I almost know the song myself by heart. 
I'd sing it for you, but I dare not try, 
Because the flower-elves might n't like it — 

SYLVIA. 

Why, 
Where are the flower-elves gone ? 



A Conversation I S 

TRUE. 

They'll be here soon — 
They always take a nap just at the stroke of 

noon, 
For then the flowers are sleeping too. Go, 

Trim, 
And bring a diamond goblet filled up to the 

brim, 
With honeysuckle dew we caught last night. 
See that the dew has not stood in the 

light ; 
First, strain it well, according to the rule ; 
Then drop a tiny starbeam in, to make it 

cool. 

[Trim goes, and returns almost instaiitly with 
the goblet, which he presents to Sylvia. 

TRIM. 

Now, Sylvia, drink; 'tis very soothing — 

very. 
Titania drinks it, — our good Queen of Faery. 

INTERLUDE SPOKEN BY PITPAT. 

The lady to the garden came ; 
She called her flowers, each one, by name, 
And knew how many buds each had. 
The flowers all knew that she was glad, 
And bloomed their best all summer through. 



*6 Sylvia and the Flowers 

To her the lilies kisses threw, 
And bowed to her with courtly grace ; 
The foxglove peered into her face, 
It stood so very tall and straight ! 

There lingered by the garden-gate 
A little urchin flower-child 
Who, well the lady guessed, was wild. 
Its eye was black, and there were streaks 
And stains of purple on its cheeks, 
As though the sly, mischievous elf 
To jam had lately helped itself — 
To jam, or jelly, on the shelf ! 

The flowers all bent a frowning view, 

The flowers all watched what she would 

do, 
To punish this bold runagate 
For creeping through the garden-gate. 
They heard her speak, they saw her bend, 
And, " What 's your name, my little friend ? " 
She said, and gazed with smiling face. 

Then ran a whisper round the place : 
"Who is it dares to make so free ? " 
" A pansy — so it seems to me ! " 
" A violet — if I see aright ! " 
" I 'd be ashamed of such a plight ! " 



A Conversation I 7 

" And yet, the little rogue looks bright ! " 
Then up and spoke the truant sprite, 
With lips and cheeks all streaked with jam, 
" I 'm only Johnny Jump-up, Ma'am ! " 

Enter a Bee and a Butterfly. 

HIGH-SPY. 

Ah, who is that, just fluttering in, I see ? 
My eyes ! 'T is Mistress Solitary Bee ! 

solitary bee {comfilainingly). 

Except that Sylvia invited me, 

I 'd not be here. Perhaps I make too free ? 

BUBBLE. 

Too oft you 've robbed the flower-elves, yet 

you may 
(Since Sylvia herself invites you) stay. 

NIP. 

And who is this ? A young, young Butter- 
fly ! 
Within his chrysalis I saw him lie 
Only an hour ago ! He looks so limp, 
His wings show every little crease and 
crimp ! 



!8 Sylvia and the Flowers 

NIM. 

Some one go help him ; gently fan him — so ; 
Too near to Mistress Bee you must not go ! 

BUBBLE. 

Of course, we '11 be polite to Sylvia's guest, 
And yet, a little caution would be best. 
Old mistress Bee and Baby Butterfly — 
I never saw so odd a pair — not I ! 

The Flower-Elves re-enter, Daffodil taking the lead. 

hist {after consulting Daffodil). 
The flower-elves have returned, all fresh and 

gay, 

From their short nap. They 're ready, so 

they say, 
To sing that song for you — and there they 

stand ! 
The song is called by us in Faeryland, 

The Flowers that Look Up, and The Flow- 
ers that Look Down. 

The Flower-Elves arrange themselves in two 
gi'oups, facing each other. They speak alternately, 
first those representing the flowers that look up, the?i 
those representing the flowers that look down — both 
suiting the action to the words. They obey DaffodiVs 
directions at all times. 



A Conversation 19 

{The So Jig.) 

THE FIRST GROUP OF FLOWERS. 

There were Daisy and Cornflower and Poppy 
and Pink, 

And the Iris that stands by the water to 
drink, 

Marigold, Larkspur, and Tulip, and Rose, 

And the Flower-of-an-Hour, that just blos- 
soms and goes ; 

And Hepaticas pale, faint-colored like pearls ; 

And Sunflower, and Eyebright, and little 
Blue-Curls ; 

And the great scarlet Balm, and the Thistle 
so proud, 

And Bluets that stand in a twinkling crowd, 

And Climb-well, and June-sweet and Honey- 
sup : 

These are the flowers that always look up ; 

Some of them tame, and some of them wild, 

And some only bloom for Titania's child ! 

THE SECOND GROUP. 

There were Jonquils and Snowdrops, and 

Lilies all pale, 
Violets, Myrtle, and Bluebells so frail ; 
And the Hyacinth sweet with its scented 

bell, 



Sylvia and the Flowers 



And the Moccasin-Flower in the dewy dell ; 

And the Indian Pipe, and the Trillium white, 

And the Jewel-weed, and the Columbine 
bright ; 

And the Shadow Flower, flitting away 
through the grass, 

And the Lady Flower sad with her looking- 
glass, 

And the Lost Flower that somebody dropped 
in the town : 

These are the flowers that always look 
down, — 

Some of them tame and some of them wild, 

And some only bloom for Titania's child ! 

THE FIRST GROUP. 

Whenever the weather is mild and fair 
And not a leaf stirs in the sunny air, 
Then, in meadows and woods, for many a 
mile, 

ALL TOGETHER. 

The flowers that look up — they look up and 

smile ; 
And the flowers that look down — they look 

down and sigh, 
And they do this forever, yet no one knows 

why ! 



A Conversation 21 

THE SECOND GROUP. 

When the clouds arise and darken the sky, 
And the wind from the East goes rustling by, 
And the big drops fall every once in a while, 

ALL TOGETHER. 

The flowers that look up — they look up and 

smile ; 
And the flowers that look down — they look 

down and sigh, 
And they do this forever, yet no one knows 

why ! 

SYLVIA. 

Thank you, a thousand, thousand times, dear 
elves ! 

DAFFODIL. 

{Speaking for the Flower- Elves and bowing to Sylvia^ 
To hear you say so, gives us joy, ourselves. 
If you could go with us, how pleased you 'd 

be, 
With all that you in Faeryland would see. 

HIGH-SPY. 

Before this company breaks up, and goes, 
(If you will pardon me), I would propose 
That we should take our friend away with us ; 
One day, at least, she 'd like to stay with us. 



22 Sylvia and the Flowers 



Ah, yes ; I see — yes, if it could be done. 

HIGH-SPY. 

You know how great is great King Oberon : 
Ten thousand carriage-horses at command 
Has our illustrious King of Faeryland ; 
The gentle Katydids so trim and light, 
And dragon-flies as swift, as strong in flight ; 
Ten thousand teams that draw our moving- 
vans ; 
And then, as many good black beetle spans — 
Why can't we do it, I should like to know ? 
We'll get our King's consent, and she shall 
go. . 

SYLVIA. 

The coach will be the trouble, I should think. 

TRIM. 

Oh, no ! I '11 manage that in half a wink. 

HIGH-SPY. 

What say you, Wavery, Glimmery, Hist, and 
Bubble ? 

ALL. 

(Clappiiig their hands and speaking together.) 
To faery-folk such trifles are no trouble ! 



A Conversation 2 3 

NIP AND NIM. 

We too, at once, will seek King Oberon, 
And learn if his permission can be won. 

hist. 
Hark ! hark ! I think he 's coming up this 

way; 
His troops he musters on Midsummer Day. 
Yes ! now I hear the merry buglers play ! 
We '11 kneel beside the road as he goes by, 
And, I believe, our wants he will supply. 

SYLVIA. 

Why ! Faeryland must be, indeed, quite near. 
Kind Gossips, I can walk there, never fear ! 

DAFFODIL. 

We '11 go ahead, and guide you, Sylvia dear. 

HIGH-SPY. 

King Oberon's banners on the hill appear ! 

HIST. 

The Queen is coming too, and how the 
soldiers cheer ! 

(All hurry forward with eager faces, Sylvia with the 
rest.) 



24 Sylvia and the Flowers 

{Some one Sings.) 

Sylvia 's gone to Faeryland ! 
Faeryland, ho ! Faeryland 

Lies ever close at hand ; 
You may find it if you list — 
If you look and if you list, 

The way cannot be missed ! 



II 
UNDER GREEN BOUGHS 




UNDER GREEN BOUGHS 



APRIL 



■,--\y£jHO is this weeper with the twin- 
kling eye — 
This smiler with the long-drawn 
sigh, 
This elf with cap awry, 
That loves such range 
Of change ? 
Strange ! 
Well ? 
Pray tell 
Whence comes the spell 
Wrought by this changeling sly, 
To make us laugh, to make us cry, 
Just as he does himself — we know not why ? 
27 



28 Under Green Boughs 



MORNING IN BIRDLAND 




T one in the morning, 

All's silent in Birdland, all 
bright eyes are curtained, 
and folded all wings. 



At two in the morning, 
Some dreaming young thing a snatch of its 
daytime roundelay sings. 

At three in the morning, 
Early-Bird chides his slow neighbors, and then 
falls asleep unaware ! 

At four in the morning, 
All, merry and mad, pour a medley of song on 
the quivering air. 




Good Morrow 29 



GOOD MORROW! 

OOD morrow, O sweet morning, 
Kiss me with sun and wind, 
And without word of warning, 

Drive Winter from the mind ; 
Then let the heart be taken 

With many a happy sigh, 
To hear the songs awaken 

From out the bluebird sky ; 
The robins' silver fluting, 

Upon the maple tops : 
The sparrows' gay disputing, 

In every hedge and copse ; 
The lark's long, mellow whistle 

Where fields are cool and moist ; 
The finch upon the thistle ; 

The wood-dove, echo-voiced ; 
The phcebe, softly calling : 

The warblers' hidden choir, 
Where apple-flowers are falling, 

And darts the oriole's fire. 
The swallow builds her dwelling 

Of clay from sunny pools ; 
The doves their loves are telling, — 

The scolding wren o'errules. 
Up starts the golden flicker, 



3° Under Green Boughs 

And hurls his notes about ; 
The blue jays tilt and bicker, — 

The cuckoo's a sly scout : 
But hark ! from last year's stubble, 

How cheerly pipes the quail, 
And bobolink notes up-bubble 

From yonder grassy swale ; 
The blackbird, free from trouble, 

Pours out a gossip tale ; 
And laughs the crow at pillage, 

In fields of planted corn : — 
All, wild with Spring's distillage, 

All, mad with joy this morn ! 
Good morrow, O sweet morning ! 

Good cheer unto my songs ; 
Come ye, in thronging measures, 

As Spring birds come in throngs. 




Welcome, Robin I " 3 1 



WELCOME/ROBIN, OR THRUSH!" 

OBIN, Robin, my dear, with your 
stolen name 
The Puritan gave you when from 
old England he came, 
The homesick Puritan gave 
you — 
Robin, Robin, you 're only a thrush, I 

know, 
A friend of the summer, in autumn away you 
will go — 
Away you will go — Heaven save you ! 

So you desert us when nests are all empty 
and drear, 

And not a bird's note awakes the faint heart 
of the year : 
Ah, Robin, Robin, why will you ? 

Is it that after your absence we '11 prize you 
the more, 

And the song that you sing, when some morn- 
ing in May you outpour 
The hopes of the Springtime, that fill 
you ? 



3 2 Under Green Boughs 

Welcome, Robin, or Thrush — it is all the 
same, 

(Yet I would you should keep the old memo- 
rial name), 
Yes, and I bid you be merry ! 

And when the June comes with the rose and 
the new-mown hay, 

The short, sweet nights all dew, and the 
longest day, 
Welcome to berry and cherry ! 

THE MESSAGE OF THE BIRDS. 

" Several birds also visited the ships ; three of a small kind 
which keep about groves and orchards came singing in the morn- 
ing, and flew away again at evening." — Irving's Columbus. 

HAT were the birds that came 
singing at morn, 
Over the Sea Sargasso borne 
On the breeze from the mystic 
West, — 
That sang all day, but at eve flew away 
To a secret isle of rest ? 

What were the three from orchard and 

grove ? 
Our bluebird, and wren, and redbreast rove 
Afar in the fall of the year — 




May- Dew 33 




Perchance it was these, on the trackless 

seas, 
That charmed the great admiral's ear ! 

MAY-DEW 

H, would you know why 
So bright is her eye, 
It dazzles your own in the greet- 
ing ? 

Why her brows are so white, 
That the snowflake light 
Would melt, unperceived in the meeting ? 
Why the sweetbrier speaks 
In the pink of her cheeks — 
Her lips with red roses competing ? 

Each morning she 's gone, 

With the bird-notes of dawn, 
And the bell in the pasture that tinkles — 

To bathe in the dew 

Of the May when it 's new, 
On the grass and the flowers, as it twinkles ; 

They that do so 

Are best guarded, I trow, 
Against withering Time and his wrinkles. 




34 Under Green Boughs 



A WILD BOUQUET 

I. COLUMBINE. 

LONG the airy ledge they start 
in line, — 
Gay scarlet buglers of the colum- 
bine. 



II. MILKWEED. 

These coral horns hold milk of Paradise, 
Yet will detain poor Gauze Wings in a vise. 

III. CLEMATIS. 

Through thickets and by banks the Beauty 

runs 
And flings her snow-wreaths to Midsummer 

suns. 

IV. BOUNCING BET. 

A garden once was here — poor Bouncing 

Bet, 
She loves the place she used to live in, yet ! 

v. BLUETS. 

Sweetly their rugged lot they can endure, — 
The bright-eyed, thankful children of the 
poor ! 




The Fleur-de-lis 35 



THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 

|0, midget maiden sweet to see, 
And sweet to kiss — if that might 

be, 
Go, search the garden through 
and through, 
And bring the flower you love most true. 

The midget maid from La belle France, 
Threw back an arch and laughing glance ; 
" I 'm April's pet and precious tease, 
I change my mind just when I please." 

She plucked a rose, a sprig of May, 

A daffodil, a tulip gay, 

A pink, a modest violet, 

A daisy white, some mignonette — 

But then, just then, she chanced to see 
The flower of France, the fleur-de-lis ; 
She softly laughed, and dropped the rest, 
"This flower I love the very best !" 




3 6 Under Green Boughs 



THE DAY'S EYE 

HAT does the daisy see, 

In the breezy meadow tossing ? 
It sees the wide blue fields over- 
head, 
And the little cloud - flocks 
crossing — 



What does the daisy see, 

Round the sunny meadow glancing ? 
It sees the butterflies' chase, 

And the filmy gnats at their dancing. 

What does the daisy see, 

Down in the grassy thickets ? 

The grasshoppers green and brown, 
And the shining coal-black crickets. 

It sees the bobolink's nest 
That no one else can discover, 

And the brooding mother-bird, 
With the floating grass above her. 




The Winter green 37 



THE WINTERGREEN 

HITE hangs the wintergreen bell 

By shady hillside and dell, 
White as the new-fallen snow : 
So cool and so sweet 
It lies at your feet, 
It looks like a lost child of Winter ! 
Does any one know 
Why it strays in the Kingdom of Summer ? 

Red is the wintergreen fruit, 

When the woodland is faded and mute, 

And dim with the falling snow : 

So warm and so bright 

In the dreary light, 
It looks like a lost child of Summer ! 
Does any one know 
Why it strays in the Kingdom of Winter ? 




3 8 Under Green Boughs 



A SUMMER SHOWER 

|OWN, down, so full, so free, 
Down like a flood the cooling 

comfort poured 
That sagging clouds had stored : 
It seemed as if beneath the ancient sea 
Our summer world lay rocking to and fro ; 
The meadows, in long undulations rolled, 
Looked dim and far and cold, 
Like banks of seaweed in the depths below ; 
The heavy trees with the wet whirlwind 

strove, 
As might some coral grove 
When tempests visit the deep ocean vales. 

What, ho ! Aloft Fair Weather sets her sails, 
White cloud-craft blown along the upper blue ; 

The wind from out the west 

Goes singing on its quest, 
And rumors that the world is made anew ! 
And now it tries to raise the lodged grain ; 
Now, coming to the trees o'ercharged with 
rain, 

From their green domes and towers 

It calls down mimic showers. 



Nicor 39 



How slow yon flowers uplift their heads 
again ! 
These roses half out-blown 
Are like fair sleepers' eyes 
Beneath whose lids arise 
Tears from a well of grief or joy unknown, 
That linger still although the dream has 
flown. 



NICOR 

ICOR, the water sprite, slipped 
from the sky, 
To the top of a mountain cold ; 
He caught all the arrows the 
frost let fly, 
And they turned to rain in his hold. 

He quarried a block of the glacier ice, 
And carved him a chalice entire ; 

And adorned it with many a fair device, 
And annealed it in sunset fire. 

He fashioned a key that would turn the locks 
Of the cells of the sleeping streams ; 

And they glided forth, in glistening flocks, 
Laughing within their dreams. 




4o Under Green Boughs 

Then, at once, he struck from their still 
bound feet 
The massy fetters they bore ; 
And they followed him, henceforth, glad and 
fleet, 
Down the summit scarred and hoar. 

Many the shaggy pine he snapped, 
And hurled it along like a lance ; 

Many the mountain garden he lapped, 
With its dead and its springing plants. 

Sometimes, advancing, he waved his flag, 
Cloud-white, and with sudden cheer, 

Over the brow of an airy crag 
He leaped — ten fathoms sheer. 

And ever against his downward flight, 

Was the wind-footed Iris seen, 
Weaving a fillet of many-hued light, 

To bind on his tresses sheen. 

And now in the low green vale he dwells, 
And the little streams thither haste, 

To hear the tales the traveller tells 
Of the mountains, wild and waste. 



A Humble Balloonist 4 1 

But ever and oft, in the deep of night, 

As the curling mists arise, 
Nicor, the homesick water sprite, 

Revisits his home in the skies. 



A HUMBLE BALLOONIST 

HERE is a noiseless spinner dark 
and small, 
Her house a curled leaf or a tuft 

of heather ; 
She lives alone within her silken 
hall, 
Or at her window sits in sunny weather. 

Perchance there comes a time of wind and 

rain, 
That fills and tips the meadow lily's chalice, 
And brims the hollows of the grassy plain, 
And makes an island of the spinner's palace. 

What does she then ? Discouraged not at all, 
She spies beyond the flood some favored high- 
land ; 
And now she plans, within her silken hall, 
A way by which to leave the flooded island. 




4 2 Under Green Boughs 

She throws a web upon the air, and soon 
'T is caught, and lifted by the willing breezes ; 
Then, freed from trouble, in her light balloon 
Our spinner travels whereso'er she pleases. 

The fairy gentlefolk her car may borrow, 
When they would go a journey thro' the sky. 
Keep watch ; perhaps to-day, perhaps to- 
morrow, 
You may behold them drifting, drifting by ! 



"BLOSSOM, BLOSSOM ON THE GREEN 
BOUGH ! " 

LOSSOM, blossom on the green 

bough ! — 
And the birds to sing as the birds 

know how, 
And the bees to murmur the 
"amens " sweet, 
And the grass a fine carpet beneath our feet ; 
And a glimpse of white clouds in the blue 

sky spaces, 
Like a ceiling with frescoes of cherub faces ! 
The orchard was decked like a " Children's 

Day " chapel ; 
So we played that in church very quiet we sat, 




" Blossom on the Green Bough " 43 

And listened, and looked ! But we soon tired 
of that; 

Then on a low branch we would swing and 
sing 

In the flower-snowing time of the blossom- 
white Spring ; 

While Echo — wild Echo who lived in the 
hill, 
Would listen and answer us still. 

" Bring us a pound-sweet apple ! " we cried. 
And Echo, — wild Echo replied, 
" Sweet apple — sweet apple ! " 

Apple, apple on the green bough ! 

The honey-bees work in the clover fields now, 

And the grass underfoot grows long and 

grows strong. 
The birds are too busy for even a song ; 
For the old ones are teaching the young ones 

to fly, 
With many a flutter, and many a cry, — 
And now, they are flown in the blue sky 

spaces ! 
The ripening fruit the blossom replaces, — 
Here a globe of bright gold may be seen, 

there a dapple 
Of russet and crimson ! We sing, and we 

swing 



44 Under Green Boughs 

On the apple-tree limb, as we did in the 

Spring. 
And Echo — wild Echo who lives in the 
hill, 
Still listens, and answers us still. 
" Bring us a pound-sweet apple ! " we cry, 
And Echo is swift to reply, 
" Sweet apple — sweet apple ! " 



ECHO 

S^r^'^EIR, the gray magician, set a cun- 
ning snare, 
Crafty were its meshes woven all 

of air. 
Sylphs in gold and azure, with 
the web were caught, 
Birds that haunt king's chambers, with accus- 

ings fraught, 
Urchin sprites, that live in gems andprismed 

beams ; 
Fairy armies marching, trumpets, flags and 

teams ; 
These, and more were tangled in his woven 

toils, 
But he gave to Fancy all the precious spoils. 




Echo 45 

Once he heard a sighing, faintly shrill it 

came, 
" Set me free, wise master ; I can spread thy 

fame." 
" Softly now, sweet truant, softly now," said 

he, 
"You must tell your story, ere I set you 

free ! " — 

" I am but an echo, scarcely heard ere gone, 
In the sky I fold me like a star at dawn ; 
Mountain winds uplift me on their rustling 

wings, 
Green hills give me shelter by their rocks and 

springs ; 
I am but a murmur, light upon the air, 
You can never trace me, for no path I wear ! " 

" Sometimes from the minster vesper sounds 

I steal — 
Bear them to the desert where they faintly 

peal ; 
Then the traveler gazes round the vacant 

plain, 
Trembling, lest some madness hath beset his 

brain ! 
Or in shepherd valleys, there I make my cell, 
And I love to linger round a mossy well, 



46 Under Green Boughs 

And draw up a murmur from its hollow 

throat, 
Where a day-star twinkles, a pale golden 

mote. 

" But when battle rages, then I seek the rocks, 
And like buried thunder, I give back the 

shocks. 
Oft in sport, I carry poet's song afar, 
Even while he sigheth, ( Few my lovers are ! ' 
Or else, all unbidden, from a heart I rise ; 
If the lips deny me, I possess the eyes ! 

" Once I went to heaven, and I stole a song : 

Hermes could not take me, tho' he followed 
long ! 

I 'twas loved Narcissus, — what is that to 
thee ? 

He may live or perish, I shall never see ! 

Leans he by smooth waters, 'mong the dryad 
elves ? 

Do his flower-lips quiver, pining for them- 
selves ? 

I am but a murmur, light upon the air, 

Care and love and sorrow long I may not 
bear. 

This is all my story, bid me now be free — 

I hear Music floating — Music calls for me ! " 



Chased by the Moon 47 

Weir, the gray magician, laughed and let her 
Singing like the arrow when it leaves the bow. 

CHASED BY THE MOON 




HERE is mischief in the moon 
When she shows her face in day- 
time, — 

Laughing mouth and quizzing 
eye ! 
All the livelong afternoon 

She had spoiled my brave boy's play -time, 
Watching, watching like a spy ! 

Though close down he pulled his hat, 
Still the moon kept up her peeping 
Through its ragged, raveled brim ; 
Then his heart went pit-a-pat, 

Up his back the chills were creeping ; — 
All the more she laughed at him ! 

In a bush he hid his head ; 

She looked through the leafy spaces, 
Smiling ! — " Still I see you, sir ! " 
Then he hid behind the shed., 
But the Moon was making faces 
When he dared to peep at her. 



48 Under Green Boughs 

So all around, around, around, 

The laughing Moon pursued him lightly, 
And searched out every hiding-place. 
His mother in the house he found ; 

He caught her hand and held it tightly — 
And then the Moon gave up the chase 



THE SQUIRREL 

[HE squirrel has laid by his winter 
store ; 
And now high up he sits, beside 

his door, 
And threatens what he '11 do if 
we come near, 
Intent on robbing him of his good cheer. 
Sometimes by chance he drops a walnut 

down, 
Then whisks away, — a slender streak of 

brown, 
But soon returns, to scold at us again. 
He may not be more wise or brave than 

men, 
But if we would believe his valiant boast, 
He can, all by himself, withstand a host ! 





Gossips of the Night 49 



GOSSIPS OF THE NIGHT 

HE long, bright, weary hours are 
put to rest, 
And a light murmur, breathing 

from the west, 
Tells us the night wind lives 
along the earth. 
It wakens voices full of slumberous mirth. 
The mantling pool breaks out with gurgling 

notes, 
In measured rounds, from hollow, drinking 

throats, 
Until we seem to hear the winding thrills 
Of some great sea-shell left among the hills. 
Sweet birds, self-brooded from the light, 
Hear not the droning hymns that greet the 

night, 
Though all about the leaves are gossips met, 
That without ceasing, bicker, pine and fret ; 
The feasted locust trills his whirring wing, 
And crickets from their crannied door-ways 

sing. 
The fire-fly's little taper cannot live 
Within the splendor that the moon doth 

give, 
But fades against the willow's misty sweep. 



5° Under Green Boughs 

Now small, brown sicklemen the grain-fields 

reap, 
And hold, unseen, their frolic harvest home ; 
Now busy builders shape the mushroom's 

dome, 
Or catch the grass in labyrinths close and 

fine ; 
Some toss off flagons filled with mandrake 

wine, 
Some in the water-lily floating lie, 
Some in the palace of the dragon-fly. 



MIDGES 






\/V l§X^ evening-time when silent are the 
leaves, 
And warm the air above the har- 
vest sheaves, 
Along some lingering sunbeam's 
red-gold ray, 
You '11 often see what seems a misty spray. 

It is the midges ! If you 're passing near, 
A low and gentle humming you will hear ; 
And you might think it is the air that 

sings — 
But no ! it is those countless, filmy wings ! 




In a Hammock 5 1 



IN A HAMMOCK 

REEN boughs and a hammock, — 
a baby swinging, — 
Sunshine and shadow, — a little 

maid singing — 
Oh, 't was a picture of lovely 
completeness ! 
And these were the words the little maid sung, 
As backward and forward the hammock 
swung : 
" Oh, how sweet the Baby is, 
Oh, how sweet the Baby is, 

Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Kiss me, Sweetness ! " 

How the baby laughed when her tender sis- 
ter, 
Keeping time with the singing, bent down 

and kissed her. 
Oh, 't was a picture of lovely completeness, 
Twelve - Years, and Twelve - Months — a 

charming duet ! 
And that picture and song I shall never for- 
get : 
"Oh, how sweet the Baby is, 
Oh, how sweet the Baby is, — 
Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Kiss me, Sweetness ! " 




5 2 Under Green Boughs 



BABY'S TEARS 

F your little tears could make 
The little flowers grow, 
Baby, Baby, Baby dear — 

How the flowers would grow ! 



But the flowers, beneath such showers, 
Could only droop their heads and die ; 
So I cannot see — can you ? 
That it 's any use to cry ! 

BABY'S EVENING-SONG 



OW the little white sheep, 
And the little black sheep — 
They have all gone to sleep 
In the fold. 



Nothing is black, 
Nothing is white, 
When the kind old Night — 
Hides them all out of sight 
In the fold. 

And the little children too, 
Must do as little lambs do ; 




Babys Evening-Song 53 

They must all go to sleep 
In the fold. 

Nothing is hungry, 
Nothing is cold, 
When it once goes to sleep 
In the fold. 

And the swift bright things 
That fly about on wings, 
Round the fields and through the skies — ■ 
They have shut their cunning eyes, 
And have all gone to rest 
In the nest ; 

Every little bird's head 
Laid upon a feather-bed, 
Underneath its mother's breast ! 
All the swift bright things, — 
They have all gone to rest 
In the nest. 

And the little children too, 
Must do as little birds do : 
They must all go to rest 
In the nest. 



54 Under Green Boughs 

Nothing unkind 
Can the Baby find, 
When she once goes to rest 
In the nest. 



BABY'S DREAMS 



%j|; '■" '*%)ft-^ breams, where memory has 

no share, 
^^ffl As free from fear as void of care, 
^ffi^-'W J Fill those young sleeping eyes ? 
What dreams, where dreams can 
have no words, 
Like flights of lovely unknown birds, 
In silence sink or rise ? 

The baby's dreams are secrets safe, 
Howe'er we watch the dreamland waif, 

Or question when she wakes. 
She only knows (returned once more) 
The wave that brings her to our shore 

In kisses softly breaks. 




"Are Your Grapes Ripe?" 55 



ARE YOUR GRAPES RIPE?" 

WARM little face looked in at 

my door ; 
Half timid, half bold was the look 

that it bore, 
With a glance at the vines just 
overhead, 
A sigh, and a pause — then a soft voice said, 
"Are your grapes ripe, Miss Thomas ? " 

For more than a week he has come every day. 
Each time, I know what he wishes to say, 
With his rosy lips and his wistful sigh, 
And I shake my head, with a smile, and reply, 
"Not yet; you must wait, little Theo." 

But the sun shines warm, and the vines hang 

low, — 
So heavy and purple the clusters grow ; 
And, when at my doorway to-morrow he 

stands, 
I '11 say, filling both of his chubby hands, 
" My grapes are ripe, little Theo." 



Ill 

WHEN WINTER COMES 




WHEN WINTER COMES 



WHAT THE SWALLOWS SAID 



TRANSLATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER 



LREADY the leaves by thousands 
Have gone to their winter bed ; 
Crisp are the mornings and even- 
ings— 
The beautiful days are dead ! 



A few flowers left in the garden 
Are decked for a last parade ; 

There 's the mangold's yellow bonnet, 
And the dahlia's crimson cockade. 




Bubbles of rain in the fountain, 
Mildew and blight everywhere ; 

The swallows are flocking together, 
In the numb and aguish air, 
59 



6o When Winter Comes 

On yonder roof, holding a council, 

And mustering their forces for flight ; 

If I can interpret their language, 
They talk of going to-night. 

One says : " Delightful is Athens, 
And full of choice nesting-places ; 

Mine 's in the Parthenon's cornice, 
With the carven Hours and Graces." 

Another says : " I live at Smyrna, 
In a coffee-house, over the door ; 

The pilgrims their beads of amber 
Are piously telling o'er. 

" I dart in and out at my pleasure, 
At home in the curling haze, 
Sometimes, stooping downward, an instant, 
The smokers' bright turbans I graze." 

One says : "I build in a temple 
That stands on old Baalbec's hill ; 

I hang by my claws suspended 
My little ones' mouths to fill." 

Another says : " Here 's my address — 
Rhodes ; at the Palace of Knights. 



What the Swallows Said 6l 

From the wreaths of its polished black pil- 
lars 
My summer mansion invites ! " 

" Oh, comrades, age overtakes me ; 
No very long journey I '11 try, 
But halt on the white cliffs of Malta, 
Between the blue sea and blue sky : " 

"How joyous is life at Cairo, 

High up in some spire or dome ! 
My nest is a bold embossment, 
Carved of the river loam : " 

" Where the second cataract plunges, 
There will I dip my wing ; 
I have chosen the site of my dwelling 
In the hand of a granite king : " 

" How many fair lands we shall traverse, 
Seeking our Southern home ; 
Burnt plains and cold snow peaks — and 
ocean, 
With its mighty chalice of foam ! " 

Thus counsel the swallows, beholding 
The woods and the fields gather rust, 



62 When Winter Comes 

And clapping their wings in approval, 
They vanish away on the gust. 

I know all their motions and symbols — 
I know a bird's thoughts and desires, 

I am their captive brother, 
Held back by invisible wires ! 

I remember that anthem of Riickert's — 
Would that I too might take wing, 

And fly with the swallows, unresting, 
Till I hailed the glad sun and green 
spring ! 



OVERHEARD IN AUTUMN WOODS 

|S I roamed through the motley 
forest, 
In the mellow age of the year, 
As I parted its hanging curtains, 
Damask and russet and sere, 
The leaves were all talking together 
In whisperings, crisp and clear. 

The red leaf sighed to the sallow, 
" Alas, you are changed overnight ; 




Overheard in Autumn Woods 63 

I fear you have taken the jaundice, 
And, comrade, were I in your plight, 

I would hurry and hide me, hide me, 
Away from the searching light ! " 

The sallow leaf answered the crimson, 
" Think of yourself — not of me ; 

For if I have taken the jaundice 
And am foul for the light to see, 

You are hectic and burnt with fever, 
And crazy as crazy can be ! " 

The green leaf, dancing between them, 

Mocked in its wanton glee, 
" 'T is plain that you soon must go earth- 
ward, 
And leave this light kingdom to me; 
When the wind takes you and whirls 
you, 
I still shall keep state on the tree ! " 

Thus, through the motley forest, 
Chill rumor flew far and wide, 

While the spoiler of all lay plotting 
Under the forest-side, 

Sharp'ning his silver arrows 
For mischief at evening-tide. 




64 When Winter Comes 



"WHAT CHEER?" 

HAT cheer, what cheer, 
Now December is here, 
With snow on the thatch, 
And the winds at the latch, 
, Sighing — sighing ! 



White wreaths are hung 
The pine-boughs among, 
The rosebush is shorn, 
Showing naught but the thorn ; 
And whatever's not dead, 
Underfoot or o'erhead 
Is slowly dying. 

Not a leaf knows the tree 
Where its home should be, 
But sails on the air, 
The wind knows where — 
Frightened and flying ! 

What cheer, what cheer, 
Now December is here ? 
Get you to sleep 
In a nook warm and deep, 

(With the cricket for neighbor) ; 



Two Owls 65 



Shut your eye fast, 
And you '11 fancy, at last, 
That the gray world is green, 
That the sun breaks the sheen 
Of the ice-brooks — and lo ! 

They talk, as they go, 
Of bees at their labor, 
Of clover in bloom, 
And corn in full plume ! 
So, little you '11 care, 
Though down through the air 
The storm swings its sabre. 



TWO OWLS 

NOWDON 1 and Long Ears sat 
on a limb 
In the warmest of winter-down 

dressed, 

And the air with the snowflake 
and twilight grew dim, 
When a mouse made a noise in the robin's old 

nest ; 
And you never would guess that the Snow- 
don heard 

1 The name of a species of owl. 




4 



66 ^ When Winter Comes 

Just as well as his cousin, the long-eared 
bird ! 

MORAL 

Fine feathers do not make sharp ears. 

THE OWL'S SOLILOQUY 

N aged Winter when the Sun 
Doth journey by the shortest Arc, 
And Mortals' Gaze doth seeme to 

shun, 

Then early comes the friendly 
Darke. 
When Village Folks their Prayers have said 
And soone are sunk in Drowsihed, 
When Chimneys send no Smoke nor Spark, 
When Trees are frozen stiff and stark, 
My Revels I begin to keepe. 

With Voice as sweete as any Lark, 
I sing unto the gentle Moone, 
Or else my Bookes of Magik search, 
Like Clerk or Parson of the Church, 
Until the Hour of Sable Noone ; 
And then I leave my forked Perch, 
And cleave the Aire so still and deepe, 
To rouse the ancient jolly Sprights 



Raleigh Bells 67 

That wont to cheere the Winter Nights, 
And make the Dreames that trouble Sleepe. 

Then, shooting Stars drive madly downe ; 
And on the Steeples of the Towne 
Full many a wicked Antick hops. — 
All whirl about like spinning Tops, 
While Goblins at the Windowes croone, 
And Witches gallop to the Moone. 



RALEIGH BELLS 

OU cannot see the minster spire, 
Nor village roofs o'ertopped with 

snow, 
Nor coiling smoke from cottage 
fire, 
Nor eastern window-panes aglow, 
To show that day is springing — 
But hark ! the bells are ringing ! 

They echo from the piny glen, 

Where creeps the silent winding stream ; 

They answer from the cliffs again, 

And die away towards morning's beam ; 
The air is barbed and stinging — 
Hark ! Raleigh bells are ringing ! 




68 When Winter Comes 

Of fir and holly, everywhere, 
The happy folk are weaving bowers ; 
The candles gleam from niche and stair, 
And on the deepest dreaming hours 
The Christmas waits are singing. — 
(Hark ! Raleigh bells are ringing !) 

Ring out, ring out the Noel chimes, 
Let tower to tower peal glad reply, 
And tell their joy a hundred times ; 
But yonder, buried from the sky, 

What hands the ropes are swinging ? 

Hark ! Raleigh bells are ringing ! 

How many winters have they slept, 
Whose roof-tree is the valley's floor ? 
They have not toiled, nor laughed, nor wept ; 
Nor roses bloom beside their door, 

Nor swallows there are winging — 

Yet Raleigh bells are ringing ! 

Those blessed bells may not be still, 

When dawns the holy Christmas morn ; 
They tremble neath the icy hill, 
And thrill the frozen waste forlorn. 

No other daylight springing 

Sets Raleigh bells a-ringing ! 



Mft£ 




m 



Shoe or Stocking ? 6 9 



SHOE OR STOCKING? 

N Holland, children set their 
shoes, 
This night, outside the door ; 
These wooden shoes Knecht 
Clobes se^s, 
And fills them from his store. 

But here we hang our stockings up 

On handy hook or nail ; 
And Santa Claus, when all is still, 

Will plump them, without fail. 

Speak out, you Sobersides, speak out, 

And let us hear your views ; 
Between a stocking and a shoe, 

What do you, see to choose ? 

One instant pauses Sobersides, 

A little sigh to fetch — 
Well, seems to me a stocking's best, 

For wooden shoes won't stretch ! " 



7° When Winter Comes 



MRS. KRISS KRINGLE 



H, I laugh to hear what grown folk 
Tell the young folk of Kriss 
Kringle, 
In the Northland, where unknown 
folk 
Love to feel the frost-wind tingle. 

Yes, I laugh to hear the grown folk 

Tell you young folk how Kriss Kringle 

Travels round the world like lone folk, 
None to talk with — always single! 

Would a grim and grave old fellow 
(Not a chick nor child to care for) 

Keep a heart so warm and mellow 
That all children he 'd prepare for ? 

Do you think, my little maiden, 

He could ever guess your wishes — 

That you 'd find your stocking laden 
With a doll and set of dishes ? 

No ; the truth is, some one whispers 
In the ear he hears the best with, 



Mrs. Kriss Kringle 7 1 

What to suit the youngest lispers, 
Boys and girls, and all the rest with. 

Some one (ah, you guess in vain, dear !) 
Nestled close by old Kriss Kringle, 

Laughs to see the prancing reindeer, 
Laughs to hear the sledge-bells jingle. 

Dear old lady, small and rosy ! 

In the nipping Christmas weather, 
Nestled close, so warm and cosy, 

These two chat, for hours together. 

Oh, her step is always lightest, 
And her smile is much the oddest, 

And her eye, by far the brightest, 
Spies the stocking howe'er modest. 

So, if I were in your places, 

Rob and Hal, and Kate and Mary, 

I would be in the good graces 
Of this lovely, shy old fairy. 

But I laugh to hear the grown folk 

Tell you young folk how Kriss Kringle 

Travels round the world, like lone folk, — 
None to talk with — always single ! 




7 2 When Winter Comes 



CHRISTMAS BOUGHS 

HOU, O pine-tree, sighing 
pine ! 

Give me of thy tresses 
fine — 

Give to me, that I may weave 
Garlands for the blessed eve. 
These, in many an arch and loop, 
From the rafters we will droop ; 
Twinkling tapers there shall be 
'Mid thy branches, gentle tree ; 
'Neath the charmed mistletoe 
Thou shalt see the dancers go, 
Sound of flute and viol soft 
Floating to thee up aloft. 
Old and young shall hold thee dear, 
Summer-green in Winter drear. 
Though the guests shall flit away, 
These, thy boughs, for many a day — 
Many a day and many a night, — 
Through the season dim and white, 
Shall upon our walls be seen — 
Incense-breathing, sweet and clean. 
Bid me take thy locks, and weave 
Garlands for the blessed eve. 



Christmas Boughs 73 

Then the pine-tree bowed her head, 

And her fragrant tresses shed : 

Take them, if thou wilt, and weave 

Garlands for the blessed eve. 

Take them, but forbear to fright 

Any tender elf or sprite — 

Genius of the forest-side — 

That among my boughs may hide. 

Harm them not, when they shall flit 

Through the wreaths which thou hast knit ; 

Count them not malicious spies, 

Who will watch, with curious eyes, 

The blithe dancers in their round, 

Whirled on eddies of sweet sound. 

Be not vexed, if thou shouldst hear 

Mimic voices, small and clear, 

Airy whispers, muffled laughters, 

Up among the wreathed rafters ! 

Harmless spirits are they all ; 

Give them shelter in thy hall 

Till the Winter's power be broken, 

Till the Spring hath sent a token. 

Then the faded garlands throw 

On the dying brands, and lo ! 

Still and light, the elfin brood 

Hastens to the budding wood ! 




74 When Winter Comes 



THE SHIVERING TREE 



N the lonesome hill the wind 
blows chill, 
And it blows all winter through : 
And the Shivering Tree, it shiv- 
ers still, 
Just as it used to do ! 



The leaves so dry — when the wind went 
by- 

The leaves on the Shivering Tree — 
They looked like birds all ready to fly 

Away over land and sea ! 

It was very drear, in the dead of the year, 
When I passed the Shivering Tree ; 

I wonder now if I should hear 

What the leaves once said to me : — 

" We are so old, and the air is so cold, — 

When shall we ever be free, 
To sleep in peace, with our friends in the 
mould, 

Under our parent Tree ? " 



m 





A Storm at Sea 75 



A STORM AT SEA 
| AIL-BIRDS of iEolus — out they 

fly, 

To chop up the sea and darken 

the sky ! 
In a leathern bag they were 

sealed up fast, 
And into the hold of the good ship cast. 

All had gone well, but Ulysses slept, 
When the covetous mariners cautiously crept 
Into the hold, and forth did drag 
That double-sealed mysterious bag. 

Ah ha ! small treasure they find within ; 

With a mighty rush and a sounclful din 

Of the trumpets, and fifes, and reeds they 

blow, 
With hissing lashes of hail and snow, 
With many a hoot and taunting cry, — 
^Eolus' jail-birds — out they fly ! 




76 When Winter Comes 



CLOUDS OF EVENING 

LOUD merchantmen, with purple 
deck and sail 
Borne up from sunset by the 

evening gale, — 
Long dragon mouths like ragged 
scimitars, 
That follow and devour the little stars ! 



THE VILLAGE BY THE LAKE 

OW is it now, in the year's brief 
days, 
In the village that sits beside 
the lake ? 
How is it now in the soft, still 
ways 
Built from above by the flying flake ? 

How is it now, while the eve delays ? 

Do the star and the crescent moon go down 
On the long west street, while the night wind 
sways 
The flag-pole that stands in the midst of 
the town ? 




The Winter Street 77 

How is it now, in the dim, white nights ? 

Do the lone wind-voices come and go ? 
Are the roofs a dream, while the village lights 

Glimmer afar through the driving snow ? 

How is it now, when the slow morns dawn, 
And up through the trees the smoke is 
curled, 
To say that man wakes, and the night is 
gone — 
How is it now in the old home world ? 

Are the young still young, do the old yet 
stay — 
Do they sigh, do they smile, at the flying 
flake ? 
How is it now, this many a day, 

In the village that sits beside the lake ? 



THE WINTER STREET 1 

ILENT with star-dust, yonder it 
lies — 
The Winter Street, so fair and 
so white ; 

Winding along through the boundless skies, 
Down heavenly vale, up heavenly height. 

1 A Swedish name for the Milky Way. 




7 8 When Winter Comes 

Faintly it gleams, like a summer road 

When the light in the west is sinking 
low ; 
Silent with star-dust ! By whose abode 
Does the Winter Street in its windings 
go? 

And who are they, all unheard and unseen — 
Oh, who are they, whose blessed feet 

Pass over that highway smooth and sheen ? 
What pilgrims travel the Winter Street ? 

Are they not those whom here we miss 
In the ways and the days that are vacant 
below ? 
As the dust of that Street their footfalls 
kiss, 
Does it not brighter and brighter grow ? 

Steps of the children there may stray, 

Where the broad day shines though dark 
earth sleeps ; 
And there at peace in the light they play, 
While some one below still wakes and 
weeps. 



The Fir-Tree 79 




THE FIR-TREE 

SINGING Wind 
Searching field and wood, 

Canst thou find 
Aught that 's sweet or good, 
Flowers, to kiss awake, 
Or dewy grass, to shake, 

Or feathered seed 

Aloft to speed ? 

Replies the wind : 

" I cannot find 
Flowers, to kiss awake, 
Or dewy grass to shake, 

Or feathered seed 

Aloft to speed ; 

Yet I meet 

Something sweet, 
When the scented fir, — 
Balsam-breathing fir — 
In my flight I stir. 




8o. When Winter Comes 



THE SMALL HOURS 

LL the old Hours had flown away, 
And the small ones only were left 

instead. 
It was long and long ere the break 
of day, 
And I could not sleep as I lay in my bed ; 
So I saw them come, and saw them go, 
But whence or whither I did not know. 

It was little One who first went by, 
Sleepy, so sleepy he scarce could stand ; 
His head was drooping, half-shut was his 

eye, 
And a lighted candle he held in his hand. 
The candle, as on and on he passed, 
Became a little white star at last. 

But Two had eyes that were watchful and 

wide, 
And he wore a long cloak and covering cowl. 
Softly he stepped, while close at his side 
Walked a great mastiff with many a growl. 
But the threatening sound became the note 
The gruff wind breathed through the chim- 
ney's throat. 



The Small Hours 8l 

A witch's daughter was little Three, 

And the dreams of the night obeyed her call. 

In a pearly ship they put out to sea ; 

But the pearly ship was, after all, 

Only the bright moon going down 

Over the tree-tops and past the town. 

Four was an elfin child with a cup 

In which was glimmer of sunshine and dew ; 

She sprinkled the flowers, and they all 

looked up, 
A drop on the bee — and away it flew ! 
And the song she sung, — a song without 

words — 
Was the wild good-morning of joyous birds ! 

So the Small Hours passed my chamber door. 
I saw them come, and I saw them go : 
Little One, little Two, little Three, little 

Four! 
They 've all grown up long since, I know ; 
Yet other Small Hours there must be, each 

night, 
To watch in their places till morning-light. 



82 When Winter Comes 




THE LITTLE WATCHER 

Y watch — little watcher, good 
night ! 
You 're as true as steel and as 
good as gold, 
And changeless alike in darkness 
or light ; 
So wake, while the night grows gray and 
old. 

My watch — little watcher, good morning ! 

Yours are the hands that never will shirk ; 
Three jewels there are your soul adorn- 
ing— 

I call them Constancy, Patience, and Work. 

My watch — little watcher, good night ! 

'T is a comfort to have you so very near ; 
For you seem to say, " All's right, all's 
right !" 

As the beat of your faithful heart I hear. 

My watch — little watcher, good morning ! 
You 're telling me now, " 'T is a precious 
day!" 



" The Cricket kept, the House " 83 

If ever a spendthrift I grow, give me warn- 
ing : 
The hours are slipping too quickly away. 



"THE CRICKET KEPT THE HOUSE" 

WAS not as lonesome as it might 

have been. 
A little sunbeam oftentimes 

peeped in, 
And played upon the hearth ; and 
on the wall 
Your picture smiled at mine — but, best of all, 
The Cricket kept the house while we were 

gone, 
And sang from dawn to dark, from dark to 
dawn. 




IV 



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT 
LIKE ? 







:• 



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? 



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? 



HAT 'S my Thought like ? 
Like a bird, or like the air, 
For it ranges everywhere ! 
Like a bird, afar it flies, 
Spreads its wings in other skies. 
Fancy beckons, Thought pursues, 
And returns with strangest news ! 




What 's my Thought like ? 
'Tis like that, or 'tis like this — 
Nothing ever comes amiss. 
Now my Thought has taken wing, 
Let us see what it will bring. 
87 



88 What 's My Thought Like ? 



ADVICE 

It follows us wherever we may go ; 
We follow it whene'er we list do so. 



THE REWARD 

E lost the prize ; 

But this of him record, — 
His work well done 

He counts as his reward. 



FRIEND-SHIP 

T is a goodly sail 
Before a favoring gale ; 
It is a wealthy freight, 
Exceeding Kings' estate ; 
It is a faithful crew — 
Heaven bring this ship to you ! 





Instinct 89 



INSTINCT 
[translated from the German] 



SAY, my bird, so free and light, 
Say whither dost thou wing thy 
flight ? " 
" I cannot, cannot say, 
But instinct leads the way, 
And therefore must the way be right ! " 






" But say, dear bird, so light and free — 
But say what doth Hope promise thee ? " 
" A heaven calm and fair — 
A sweet and pleasant air, — 
New springtime Hope doth promise me ! 

" But how so sure, that hast not seen 
As yet that far-off land serene ? " 
" The questions thou dost ask 
Are but an easy task ; 
Not so to answer them, I ween! " 

Its holy instinct safe doth guide 
The bird across the waters wide ; 

A heaven calm and fair, 

A sweet and pleasant air, 
The happy traveler shall betide. 




9° What 's My Thought Like 



THE FEUD OF LAND AND SEA 

HE Ocean and the Land made 
peace, 
And each one sent a token, 
That their new friendship might 
increase, 
Their faith be kept unbroken. 

The gentle Land sent meadow-sweet 

Upon a hurrying brook, 
And laid it at the gray king's feet — 

His waves the gift uptook. 

The Sea a wreath of seaweed tossed 

Far inland on the tide ; 
Its salty kiss was keen as frost — 

The grass-blade shrank and died ! 

The Land then sent a painted moth, 

Borne out upon the breeze ; 
The Ocean sprites with chains of froth 

The lovely waif did tease. 

The Sea sent back a scallop-shell, 

The shell an osprey bore ; 
The Land received it where it fell, 

Upon a mossy floor. 



A Sermon on the Leaf 9 1 

The Land then sent a noble tree, 
That crowned a river-bank ; 

The laden stream into the Sea 
With weary murmurs sank. 

The Sea returned a broken spar 
('T was once the forests' pride !) 

The Land reproached him from afar, 
And all her forests sighed : 

" Such cruel gifts as thou dost send, 
As thou dost send to me — 
How can I longer be thy friend, 
Thou bitter, bitter Sea ! " 



A SERMON ON THE LEAF 

Y all the winds of Heaven 
The homeless leaves are driven, 
Like chaff from winnowed grain, 
Till, sodden by the rain, 
They lie with seasons old" 

That knit the forest-mould — 

Ten autumns all in one ! 

Their use is never done, 

But only now begun : 

For they must shield the grass 




9 2 What "s My Thought Like \ 



When frost and sleet-wind pass ; 

And they must house the seeds 

In the rich woods and meads, 

And fold the violet 

In a warm coverlet, 

And keep back forward flowers 

Till seasonable hours, 

When gleams of April sky 

Are shed through clouds on high. 



LITTLE FRIENDS IN FAIRYLAND 

IHEN I was a child I used to roam 
In wonderful regions, though 

near at home ; 
For I feigned that the Queen of 
Fairyland 
Made me a Knight, by the stroke of her 

wand — 
A Knight whose mission it was to seek 
And rescue the captive and the weak, 
Wherever I found them in her domain, 
Bind up their wounds and relieve their pain ! 

Now the cat, that under the trumpet-vine lay, 
Was a tiger that crouched for a royal prey ; 
For the humming-bird, with his ruby gem, 




Little Friends in Fairyland 93 

Was heir to a fairy diadem ! 

So I drove Grimalkin far away, 

And the bird flew back to his mother fay. 

If a fly was caught in a net of gauze, 
The spider a wicked enchanter was ; 
So I broke the net, and the fly went free ; 
But if ever the spider I chanced to see 
Adrift on the stream — a luckless rover — 
With a leaf for a raft, I helped him over ! 

If a honey-bee fell by the way, overladen, 
I saw in her a patient maiden, 
One of the toilers that gather nectar 
For my Queen and her Court, so I must pro- 
tect her ! 
So I made a staff of a stem of grass, 
And helped to her feet the fairy lass ! 

If I met a tortoise, clumsy and slow, 

I took him along where he wished to go. 

If a merry hopper by chance was lamed, 

If a grig by some careless foot was maimed, 

A litter of leaves I quickly made, 

And carried the sufferer into the shade. 

So I traveled abroad, the long summer days, 
In the wonderful realm of the Queen of Fays. 



94 What 's My Thought Like ? 

Though I never came yet to the Court of the 

Queen, 
I have heard her voice, her smile I have 

seen ! 
Her voice, in the whispering leaves, I have 

heard, 
In the hum of insect and twitter of bird ; 
And her smile with the sunny landscape 

blends, 
And all of her subjects are my true friends. 



HOW THE FIELD-MICE HELPED THE 
KING 

O Vulcan's temple Egypt's king, 
Oppressed with terror, flies ; 
In Vulcan's temple, as he sleeps, 

A vision fills his eyes. 
The dusky fane is dim with 
light, — 
The God of Skill stands near ; 
His voice is heard amid the hush : 

" King Sethon, be of cheer ! 
The Arab and the Syrian host 
To-morrow shalt thou meet ; 
Thou shalt be master of the field, 




How the Field-Mice Helped 95 

Theirs be the flying feet ! 
I will to thee such allies send 

Thy foes shall flee like chaff, 
And thou and all thou leadest forth 

Shall at their ruin laugh ! " 

In Vulcan's temple Egypt's king 

Awoke with joyous cry, 
" The great Artificer hath sworn 

To send a strong ally.'' 
The voice of Egypt's king goes forth : 

" No longer troubled be ; 
My legions stay not till they reach 

Pelusium by the Sea ! " 

They reached Pelusium by the Sea, 

King Sethon and his host ; 
They saw the invader's banners wave, 

They heard his trumpet's boast ; 
Yet there encamped by night they dwelt, 

And dreadless slept till dawn ; 
At morn they look to see the foe 

In battle line updrawn. 
But no ! the Syrian banner droops, 

The trumpet's boast is mute ; 
A dastard and retreating foe — 

King Sethon gives pursuit ! 



96 What "s My Thought Like ? 

Before the Egyptian's breath they flee 

Like chaff of winnowed grain ! 
Where is the knotted club, the spear, 

The bow and shaft of cane ? 
Like chaff before the wind they flee, 

They strew' in death the field ! 
Where are the buskin and cuirass, 

And the stout leathern shield ? 

Let Sethon's allies answer make, 

Who, in the silent night, 
While Egypt's foes securely slept, 

Disarmed them from the fight ! 
Let Sethon's allies answer make — 

Small legions of the field, 
Whose teeth devoured the bow of cane, 

The arrow and the shield ! 
(Small timorous dwellers of the turf 

Whose foes beset each way ! 
Yet, to an old and sacred realm 

'T was ye that saved the day !) 

In Vulcan's temple Egypt's king 
Gives thanks unto the God, 

For that the mighty Framer raised 
Such allies from the sod. 

In Vulcan's temple Egypt's king 
In sculptured stone doth stand, 



King David^s Coin 97 

With bowed head and musing eyes, — 

A field-mouse in his hand ! 
And on the statue's base these words 

In golden work appear : 
" Now, whosoever looks on rne. 

Let him the Gods revere /" 



KING DAVID'S COIN 

HIS the coin that David stamped : 
On one side, an host encamped, 
Zion's watch-towers, fair and high, 
Traced upon a golden sky ; 
On the other, symbols two 

Were engraved with skill as true ; 

There were seen the scrip and crook, 

That by pasture slope and brook 

David bore in summers old — 

Symbols of the flock and fold. 

Prince, it fits (whoe'er thou art) 
Thou engrave this on thy heart — 
Prince, or yeoman whom thy fate 
Yet may lift to throned state : 
Humility becomes the king 
More than sceptre, crown, or ring. 




J 







% 



98 What ' s My Thought Like ? 



CRUELTY 

E led a cruel life, men say ; 

That steely heart, that iron hand, 
Each creature did' in fear obey, 
Ev'n to the beast that bore his 
brand. 
That iron hand ! that steely heart ! 

When death at last bade him despair, 
The frightened watcher saw him start 
At some dread vision of the air. 

'T was not the poor, unclothed, unfed, 

Nor drudge that toiled 'mid tears and sighs ; 
But only a gaunt horse's head, 

With starting veins and glazing eyes, 
That fixed his glance by night, by day, 

Between the curtains looming grim. 
He lived a cruel life, men say, 

But cruelly death came to him. 




Dick Whittington leaves London 99 



DICK WHITTINGTON LEAVES LONDON 

HERE is none to give him speed- 
ing, 
He is homeless, he is friendless ; 
He knows not where the road is 
leading, 
It lies before him black and endless. 

But hark ! Bow bells are chiming, 

" Turn again ! turn again ! turn again ! " 
And the daylight slowly is climbing, 

Up past the smoke of the city. 
Turn again ! turn again ! turn again ! " 

Oh, is it not a strange ditty, 
To which his young heart-beats are rhym- 
ing? 

What has he done, or left undone, 
That Bow bells are chiming and chiming, 

"Turn again ! turn again ! turn again ? " 

The daylight is beaming, 
. The fresh wind is playing ; 
He thinks he 's but dreaming 

That Bow bells are saying, 
Turn again ! turn again ! turn again ! 

Thrice Lord Mayor of London ! " 




ioo What 'i" My Thought Like 



AN EAGLE'S QUILL 

AM an eagle's quill, 

Shed in his towering flight. 
Finder, hast thou the skill 

To read and use me aright ? 



The north wind, whistling shrill, 
Smote me with freshening spray 

Its spirit in me, still, 

Doth teach me all I say. . 

If I could trace a scroll, 
(As I have traced the air), 

Without thy hand's control, 
This should be written there : 

Be free, be free, be free, 
And build thine aerie high ; 

Sweep thou the land and sea 
And silent deeps of sky. 

My meaning is not dark ; 

Make thou a shaft, or pen, 
And drive it to the mark — 

All servile ways of men ! 



The Rainbow in Her Tears 



Pursue and pierce deceit, 

Make it thy game and mirth ; 

And, though the lie run fleet, 
See it be pinned to earth ! 

I am an eagle's quill, 

Fair chance bestowed on thee ; 
Now, fashioned to thy will, 

What dost thou write with me ? 



THE RAINBOW IN HER TEARS 

NCE the Little Girl that cried, 
Looking through her tears espied 
Lovely motes of colored light 
In the fringes of her eye — 
Just as when the weather clears, 

And the clouds are put to flight, 

There 's a rainbow in the sky. 

And the Little Girl that cried, 
As she saw this lovely sight, — 
This fine rainbow in her tears, — 
Would forget the reason why 
She had thought it best to cry. 




io2 What } s My Thought Like ? 



MADELINE'S HAPPY THOUGHT 

|HOSE baby is that?" said Mad- 
eline's mother, 
When Madeline looked at the 
new baby brother. 
Into her four-year-old mind flew a vision 

Of love transferred from herself to another. 
" That is my baby," she said with decision, 
" And I am your baby, my own darling 
mother ! " 



DAISY WITH ONE DIMPLE 




2gJg§j^"~|UR Daisy has one dimple 
Sweet and shy, 
Just one — and would you know 
The reason why ? 






Dame Nature met our Daisy 

Sweet and shy ; 
She kissed her on one cheek 

And then passed by ! 




The Wrong Word 103 



THE WRONG WORD 

A CONVERSATION 

ND how did lessons go, at school, 
to-day ? " 
"I had them all. The tables I 

could say." 
" You never peeped between the 
leaves, to see ? " 
" Oh, mother, how could you think that of 

vie ? " 
" And in deportment you were ' perfect,' 

too ? " 
" I did not whisper once the whole day 

through." 
"What, then, my love, disturbs your con- 
science so ? " 
" I was — well, a Prevaricator — oh ! " 
" Prevaricators say what is not true ; 

And that I do not think you ever do." 
" And yet I 'm sure the teacher called me so, 

Because I was so very, very slow ! " 
"You do not mean, dear, a prevaricator ; 

She might have called you & procrastinator" 
" Oh, yes ! she said it was a fault I had ; 
But, mother dear, is that so very bad ? " 




104 What 's My Thought Like? 
A LITTLE QUAKER 

A TRUE INCIDENT 

|ITH hands clasped softly in your 
lap, 
And hair tucked back beneath 

your cap, 
And snowy kerchief trimly 
crossed, 
And lifted eyes in reverie lost — 
Friend Phoebe, won't you tell me why 
You look so far away, and sigh ? 
Why don't you leave your little chair, 
And take the sunshine and fresh air ? " 

Friend Edith, I will tell thee why 
I sit so still, and sometimes sigh. 
Dear grandma says we can't be right 
Unless we have the ' inner light.' 
(/ did n't have the ' inner light,' 
Although I tried with all my might !) 
Well, first-day morning Grandma goes 
To meeting, always, as thee knows, 
And either takes John, Ruth, or me ; 
I go one morning out of three. 



A Little Quaker 105 

"'T was ' silent meeting' yesterday. 
High up sat old Friend Hathaway ; 
His thumbs upon his cane were placed, 
And he looked stern and solemn-faced. 
Friend Hodges and Friend Underwood — 
They would n't smile — not if they could ! 
(Thee knows, I think they're vexy good!) 
Up in the gallery they sat, 
Each one looked down beneath his hat, 
And thought, and thought, and thought, 

and THOUGHT, 
But wouldn't speak out, as they ought ! 

" It was so still inside the house 
That I could hear the little mouse 
A-gnawing, gnawing in the wall. 
Outside it was n't still at all ! 
The birds were singing in the trees, 
And I could hear the boring-bees 
(The clumsy kind of bee that leaves 
Those little holes along the eaves). 
It was so very still inside, 
To keep awake how hard I tried ! 
I ate a peppermint, or two — 
But that was very wrong, I knew. 
All of a sudden, then, the birds 
And bees began to sing these words : 
1 Friend Phcebe, come outside and play, 



io6 What 's My Thought Like ? 

And never mind Friend Hathaway ! ' 
It seemed to me I must obey — 
I walked straight out the open door ! 
No child, thee knows, did so before. 

" To punish me (I 'm sure it 's right — 
I did n't have the ' inner light ! ') 
I 'm not allowed to go and play 
Till I make up for yesterday. 
Oh, dear, I must n't speak to thee — 
It 's ' silent meeting ' — don't thee see ? 



TEMPER 

|EAR child, whoe'er or where'er 
you may be, 
When I was little, long, long 
ago, 
These words were said by my 
mother to me, — 
Words that by heart I used to know : 

" If your temper you do not rule, you will see, 
Edith, your temper will surely rulej/tf?/; 
Then, no one can love you — alone you will 

be — 
Alone in the world — and what will you do ? " 




The Mother Who Died Too 107 

Alone in the world ? I grew still at the 

thought. 
No one could love me ? Why, how could I 

live ? 
My temper was gone, and soon I was caught 
In the arms, to the heart that best comfort 

could give ! 



THE MOTHER WHO DIED TOO 

|HE was so little — little in her 
grave, 
The wide earth all around so 
hard and cold — 
She was so little ! therefore did 
I crave 
My arms might still her tender form enfold. 
She was so little, and her cry so weak 

When she among the heavenly children 
came — 
She was so little — I alone might speak 
For her who knew no word nor her own 
name. 





io8 What 's My Thought Like ? 



THE LITTLE SELF 

WISH the stately goldenrod 
Might kiss the little wind-flower 
sweet, 
That asters might to cowslips nod, 
And eyebright run in haste to greet 
The violet from the April sod — 

So once the Fall and Spring might meet. 

I wish my Little Self and I 

Might sometime cross each other's way. 
My Little Self is wondrous shy ; 

I cannot meet her any day, 
Howe'er I search, howe'er I pry 

About these meadows autumn-gay. 

The runaway, the teasing elf ! 

She flits where woodland blossoms drift ; 
She has a world of pretty pelf 

She gathered from the ripples swift ; 
Such joys she has, my Little Self 

Will not be lured by any gift. 

She 's light as bird upon the wing, 

Her cheeks and eyes are all aglow. 
To me what gladness she could bring ! 



The Little Self 109 

To her I should be strange, I know. 
My Little Self holds fast the Spring, 
And Autumn will not let me go ! 

Yet still I wish the goldenrod 

Might kiss the little wind-flower sweet, 
That asters might to cowslips nod, 

And eyebright run in haste to greet 
The violet from the April sod. — 

But Fall and Spring can never meet ! 



